


Stone Cold

by jolly_utter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, OWOT2020, One Week of Terror, Psychic Abilities, Spiritualism, Victorian seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27149851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolly_utter/pseuds/jolly_utter
Summary: How could a so-called medium, even one who placed advertisements in a prestigious ladies’ magazine, possibly have any intelligence of Sir John’s missing expedition? But once Lady Jane had her mind set on something, there was very little that Sophia could do to dissuade her.Sophia tries to discover information about the fate of the expedition and gets a little more than she bargained for. Written for One Week of Terror prompt "We shouldn't be here."
Relationships: Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: One Week of Terror 2020





	Stone Cold

“Half of England must know your face by now, Auntie.” The lamps had to be lit for breakfast, making an oasis of gleaming blue and white china and silverware against the grey October drizzle outside. “If this woman is a charlatan, it would be best to give her as little information as possible with which to dupe us.”

“Of course, you’re right, my dear,” Lady Jane agreed. She pursed her lips. “Such a pity that people would prey on the hopes of anxious families so.”

Sophia reached across the table to pat her aunt’s arm.

“I will see if I can find out anything of use,” she said, “and if not, it is but the waste of a morning.” Yet as she spoke, she could see the spark of hope in Lady Jane’s eyes, and feared that this was too risky a venture. How could a so-called medium, even one who placed advertisements in a prestigious ladies’ magazine, possibly have any intelligence of Sir John’s missing expedition? But once Lady Jane had her mind set on something, there was very little that Sophia could do to dissuade her.

Thus, Sophia found herself walking briskly down a none-too-fashionable London street, peering at the house numbers and rehearsing her story. Nothing strictly untruthful, but nothing that would give away her connection to the well-publicised expedition. She had dressed soberly, and foregone her plush mantle for a plain shawl, which she drew tightly around her shoulders against the chill wind. The rain had stopped, but the fallen leaves underfoot were sodden, and the day had scarcely brightened. She hardly liked to think how much harsher the approach of winter must be, so many miles further north.

The house, when she at last came to it, was an unprepossessing brick façade, with a plaque by the door that read, _Miss E. Warrender, Spirit Medium._ A maid showed her in to a plainly furnished front parlour, dominated by a circular, white-clothed table in the centre. Sophia looked around quickly, taking in the cheap net curtains, the collection of curios on the mantelpiece, the tall bookshelf in the corner. Miss Warrender herself gave the same impression of cultured poverty; her black dress was unadorned, but her dark eyes had a warmth and intelligence to them as she gave Sophia a similarly searching look. 

“How can I help, Miss…?” Her quick eyes had already caught the lack of a ring.

“Cracroft,” Sophia said, and tried to keep her hands from fidgeting under the scrutiny.

“Please, sit, Miss Cracroft.” Miss Warrender gestured not to the imposing table, but to one of the faded armchairs pulled close to the fire. “I only use the table for large groups,” she explained, following Sophia’s questioning glance. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I would proceed directly to my enquiry, if I may.”

Miss Warrender nodded encouragingly.

“I understand you specialise in locating missing persons? I- my- my betrothed is away at sea, and feared lost. Your advertisement said to bring an item connected to the person. I have some letters—” she tugged off her gloves, then drew the letters, carefully folded, from her small embroidered bag. “—and this.”

In her room that morning, Sophia had agonised over what to bring. Surely Francis’s letters to her held the most of his spirit, if that were the necessary ingredient. When she took them from their box, however, her eyes fell on a smooth, perfectly round stone that Francis had brought her: a penguin’s courting gift, he said. It didn’t look like much, but she remembered the bashful, gap-toothed smile with which he had handed it to her, folding her small hand gently around it with his large, rough ones. Like him, it was a humble thing that brought with it the wonder of the furthest reaches of the world, and he had carried it for years through ice and storm to share it with her.

Now, she cradled the pebble in her palm, reluctant to hand it over. Its insubstantial weight was now the closest she could come to the feeling of Francis’s hand in hers, and her throat tightened at the thought.

“I understand how hard it is to share things of such a personal nature,” Miss Warrender interjected softly. If a small grey rock was different from the usual personal effects she was presented with, she made no comment. “Give me a moment, and I will prepare the room.”

She gave Sophia a soft smile, and rose. She lit several candles about the room, and drew the heavy drapes, so that the room was illuminated only by their flickering light, and the glow of the small fire. 

“Is he a religious man?” Miss Warrender asked.

This startled a laugh out of Sophia.

“No, not at all. But… he is travelling with my uncle, who is a very devout man. If it would make any difference—I would have news of both of them, if possible.”

Sophia knew that she really ought to have asked about Sir John first, as surely his well-being was most closely tied to that of the expedition, and her aunt would certainly want news of him. But somehow she guessed that if there were any success to be had in this venture, she must follow the deepest ache of her own heart.

Miss Warrender nodded. “It would confuse matters to look for more than one soul at once. Your items can help connect you with your betrothed, and I hope we may ascertain something of your uncle’s fate from him, if communication is possible.” Sophia’s scepticism must have shown on her face, for the medium continued, “Such connection does not always happen, you understand. But I will do what I can. Now—” she gathered her skirts and sat opposite Sophia, perching on the edge of the chair and reaching her hands out toward her. “Might I ask you to place your letters here, on the table between us? And if you can keep hold of this stone, as I take your hands… perfect.”

Sophia edged herself forward too, to lessen the distance. Miss Warrender’s hands were a little cold, but soft. Sophia tried to remember when she had last held anyone’s hand besides her aunt’s. Her world had narrowed so sharply over the past year or two that the mere touch of a stranger was enough to make her heart beat harder. She couldn’t tell if it was excitement or fear that set sweat prickling into her chemise and sharpened her focus to the circle of candlelight surrounding the two of them in the darkened room.

“What is your fiancé’s name, please?” Miss Warrender’s face was sharply shadowed now, and Sophia supposed she must look similarly gaunt and eerie in this light. It was a strange relief to set aside her concern for appearances briefly, to feel that in this moment, she could let her face settle into the weariness and worry that she constantly felt. She had to fight down a lump in her throat before she could speak it.

“Francis.”

“In what direction did he sail?”

“North.” Perhaps she was giving too much away, but Sophia had slipped into the realm of credulity despite herself. If she didn’t tell the truth, she thought, it might hurt her chance of reaching him. She wondered if she ought to have been more honest about her relationship with Francis. What if Miss Warrender did reach him, through whatever psychic semaphore she was about to attempt, and told him that his fiancée Miss Cracroft was asking after him? What would be think then? Would that be tantamount to accepting his proposal, should he return? Was engagement via medium considered a binding commitment?

“Miss Cracroft?” Miss Warrender enquired gently, “Are you ready to begin?”

“We are not betrothed,” Sophia blurted. “I mean to say, he proposed to me—twice—and I refused him. And then I begged him to accompany my uncle on this voyage, from which they may not return. It grows less and less likely. They have been gone three years now, with not a word. Everyone tells us it is too soon to worry, but I am so afraid—” she withdrew one hand to wipe hurriedly at her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Miss Warrender released her other hand, taking the stone from her, and Sophia rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief.

“It’s quite all right,” the medium said, “I am grateful for your honesty. The more clear and direct the emotional channel, the easier it will be to reach out. And you have a great deal of emotion connected with this man, I can see.” As Sophia stuffed the dampened cloth away again, Miss Warrender took hold of her hands once more. “Try to set your guilt and fear aside, and use your affection for him, whatever you value about Francis, to reach out in the direction you think he might be. We shall try to build a bridge to him. Here—” She set the Antarctic stone between their joined hands once more, and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Let us begin.”

Miss Warrender smiled at Sophia once more, then closed her eyes. Sophia followed suit. She could still see the glow of the fire behind her closed lids, and the only sound was the logs settling and their breath. It might have begun to rain again outside, if she strained her ears. It startled her when Miss Warrender next spoke.

“Francis,” she said, “help us find you.”

Sophia dutifully turned her thoughts north, to the maps she and Lady Jane had pored over until she could see them with her eyes closed. There was Baffin Bay, where _Erebus_ and _Terror_ were last seen. There was the maze of islands and straits into which they had vanished. Somewhere, somewhere there lay the elusive passage. She thought of Francis as she last saw him, a figure of blue and gold waving from the deck before turning away to see to his ship. All her memories of him in England were tinged with sadness, so she thought of Van Diemen’s Land. It had been warm when they danced on board the ships, the air full of the scent of flowers on top of salt and tar. They had found a quiet place on _Terror’s_ stern—the very spot she had seen him wave goodbye from—and Francis kissed her as sweetly as she had ever been kissed. It was not their first kiss, nor their last, but the surreal blending of their two worlds that night, under the bright southern stars, had set it apart from all the rest.

“Francis,” Miss Warrender intoned again, “Sophia is looking for you.”

Sophia abruptly felt goosebumps rise on her arms. She had not told Miss Warrender her first name. Then she sighed, frustrated. She must have been recognised, and this would all be a farce based off the speculation in the newspapers. Sophia opened her eyes, about to pull away, but she stopped when she saw how Miss Warrender was transformed.

The medium’s previously animated face had gone slack, and her eyes, partly open, were rolled upward to show the whites. She didn’t react at all to Sophia’s sudden movement, but rocked slightly back and forth, mouthing words. The whole effect was so uncanny and strange that Sophia was transfixed to the spot.

“Francis, can you hear us?” Miss Warrender’s face remained expressionless, but she cocked her head as though listening intently. Sophia could hear nothing but the rain increasing outside. Then, the words she had most longed to hear:

“He is alive.” 

Sophia let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, wanting to believe it in spite of all her reason telling her not to be so credulous. She hung on Miss Warrender’s next words.

“Alive, but… grievously injured. Such a sense of loss…” Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks unchecked. “Charles Best. George Chambers. John Weekes….”

Sophia’s brow furrowed. She didn’t recognise the names, but they could very well be men from the expedition. How had Francis been injured? Had they really lost so many men? Then again, if Miss Warrender were trying to deceive her, would she not give the names of some of the officers, whose names had been in the papers?

“There is a woman with him.”

Again, Sophia was full of confusion. She found herself gripping Miss Warrender’s hands more tightly, leaning in as if she could hear what the medium was hearing.

“She has a strong spirit, but she cannot speak…” Miss Warrender’s mouth opened, and she flexed her tongue, an almost obscene gesture but for the look of pain on her face. “Come to me, use my mouth, give us your words.”

Sophia watched in horror as Miss Warrender began to shake like a person in a fit. It was a wonder she stayed upright on the chair. Her hands were clenched tight on Sophia’s. Then, as suddenly as it began, the spasm passed. She lifted her drooping head and looked directly at Sophia, though her eyes were focused somewhere beyond her. On another world, perhaps. And then she spoke.

“Aglooka.”

A low groan escaped Sophia’s lips. No one, no one in the world besides Sir James Ross and the others on that northern voyage would know Francis’s Inuit name. Fear gripped her and made her breath come fast and panicked: less so that Francis really was injured and in some native woman’s care, but that the woman in front of her was able to reach across thousands of miles from this dark parlour to somehow communicate with them. She was in the presence of a phenomenon entirely outside her understanding, and it terrified her.

Miss Warrender continued speaking, but aside from hearing the name again, Sophia couldn’t understand a word. She had made Francis teach her some of what he knew of the Inuk tongue, and this language had the same sounds, but faster and more fluent than she had ever heard it. She could have wept with frustration, desperate to know what was being said and to ask all the questions bubbling up inside her. The flow of words was urgent, with pauses that felt like questions. Sophia could only look on, held fast as Miss Warrender chattered away to herself incomprehensibly, slumped like a puppet held up by strings and still rocking slightly. 

And then it was over. The speech broke off abruptly and Miss Warrender collapsed backwards in the chair, releasing Sophia’s hands. Francis’s stone clattered to the floor. Sophia sprang up and to her side, relieved to find Miss Warrender blinking her eyes open after a moment.

“Are you all right?” Sophia asked. “Some water—?”

Miss Warrender nodded weakly, and Sophia rang the bell and sent the maid for water. The housemaid peered into the room in concern, leading Sophia to believe that what she had just witnessed might not be the usual conclusion of Miss Warrender’s séances. In the meantime, Miss Warrender had pulled herself upright, but still looked pale and shaken.

“My apologies, Miss Cracroft. I was not expecting—that is to say, it is not often that I am so overcome by a spiritual encounter.”

“Who was she? Did she speak to you of Francis? Were you able to converse with her?”

The maid returned with water, and Miss Warrender visibly revived as she gulped down a glass.

“I cannot…” she shook her head and passed a hand over her brow, tucking back strands of her dark hair which had come loose. “Miss Cracroft, I confess I cannot remember most of what has transpired. I remember reaching out to your Francis as I fell into my usual trance and then… something must have taken hold of me. Can you tell me what you saw?”

Sophia could scarcely comprehend it herself, let alone describe what she had witnessed. She attempted to stammer out an explanation, only to falter at the look of confusion on Miss Warrender’s face. 

“So you did not obtain any information as to his whereabouts?” Sophia asked, with the beginnings of panic. “His condition? That of the ships?”

“I’m so sorry. It was obviously a strong connection, but with the difficulty of the language… I can only tell you the overall impression that I felt.”

“That he is alive, but injured?”

“Yes. And—not a message, as such, but a feeling—”

“Yes?”

“ _We should not be here._ ”

Sophia felt a shiver run through her, in spite of herself.

“You mean us? Or them?”

“Both. I felt I was intruding with my mind, and the- the person I encountered wanted them all gone. Whatever your uncle and Francis are doing, they are not welcome.”

Sophia let out a huff of frustration.

“It is the Franklin Expedition of which we speak. Surely you have guessed that by now? My uncle is Sir John Franklin.”

The surprise with which Miss Warrender regarded her was more than enough confirmation that she had not known.

“I am no fraud, madam,” Miss Warrender said with quiet dignity. “What I have communicated has been unsullied by any foreknowledge.”

“My apologies,” Sophia replied. “I confess I have been somewhat shaken by everything that has happened. I think I must return to my aunt now, she will be missing me. Thank you, sincerely, for all that you have done.”

Miss Warrender saw her out, and refused to accept any payment. She appeared unsettled as well, and Sophia felt the guilt over attempting this folly settle onto the weight she already carried. She was startled to find that it had grown dark outside, and she passed the lamplighter making his rounds as she hurried on her way.

Lady Franklin was in a state when Sophia reached home, just an hour before the dinner bell was usually rung.

“Where on earth have you been? I can’t be having you disappearing as well as your uncle! Did our medium prove of any use? I suppose she will have given you some vague reassurances and expected gold in return, did she?”

“Unfortunately so,” Sophia said, with an internal apology to Miss Warrender. “There was nothing of use. I’m sorry for being late, I was walking in town and lost track of time.”

“In this weather? You strange creature. Now, go warm yourself, you must be chilled through.”

Upstairs, Sophia made no move to change her dress, but sat on the edge of her bed and drew the letters out of her bag to ensure the rain had not reached them. Her heart was full of anxiety for Francis, for she was certain now that all Miss Warrender had told her was genuine. If he was indeed alive, why was he not being cared for on board _Terror_? What had become of the rest of the expedition? What of her uncle? They had clearly not made it through the passage as planned, and would be running low on supplies by now. She knew such questions would only add to Aunt Jane’s worries, and there was not a single thing she could do to help.

Sir James Ross was already making plans for outfitting a search expedition come spring, and perhaps he would not be too late. Francis yet lived, she must console herself with that knowledge. Sophia drew the round stone from the velvet confines of her bag, and once again cradled it, feeling how it fit the curve of her palm. She knew what she had seen that day, and that it defied reason. And yet it could perhaps all be explained away, save for one thing: while Miss Warrender’s hands gripped hers, in the height of her unnatural fit, with urgent unknown words tumbling from her mouth, Sophia’s hand had seared with pain, for the stone had gone as cold as ice.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a story with this premise since last Halloween, and OWOT provided the perfect opportunity. Many thanks to @ClockworkCourier for organising it! I'm also very pleased at having written a Terror fic with only female characters.
> 
> There is some interesting history surrounding the Franklin Expedition and psychic mediums- if you haven't heard the tale of Weesy Coppin you're in for a treat:  
> https://visionsnorth.blogspot.com/2009/04/londonderry-vision.html
> 
> And it is adorably true that penguins give rocks as love tokens:  
> https://www.bbcearth.com/blog/?article=the-gift-to-win-a-penguins-heart
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come find me on tumblr at [@anadequatesir](https://anadequatesir.tumblr.com)


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